19
Friday, December 20
4 days until the wedding
Jenny
At least Caleb cooked me a delicious meal at his restaurant. It soothed the fact that I spent all afternoon reworking the article for Eddie.
I’ve been on a stakeout with Dean for the past three hours. I thought he might mention the incident in the dressing room, but he’s barely spoken to me, only answering my questions with one-word grunts. He keeps his expression carefully schooled, but I sense a quiet rage beneath it.
Frustration, I assume, because we haven’t identified the culprit.
I think about telling him that I’m worried Eddie saw something on my phone, but I’m too intimidated. Too scared to admit that once again I’ve spilled my friend’s secrets. Dean has started to accept me. He lets me in right away when I knock on the car window. I don’t want to lose his trust, especially since I’m not totally sure if Eddie knows about the stalker.
After midnight, we give up on finding the Secret Santa. Dean insists on driving me back to my hotel. The weather outside has worsened, snow falling in thick blowing clouds until we can’t see more than two feet in front of us. We pull up to the curb and park. Dean peers out his window, frowning with disapproval at the small four-story boutique hotel I had picked out.
“Why are you staying here?”
I bristle, leaning around him to inspect the brick building with maroon awnings. It had looked so charming online, but in reality, well, it does appear to be a bit shabby. Not that I’m going to admit that out loud.
“What? It’s quaint.”
“It’s old.”
“Everything here is old, especially to me, coming from the West Coast. Besides, that was what I was going for. This hotel was built over 100 years ago. That’s why I like it. I want to embrace the history of this city.”
“Yeah, typhoid was so fun back then,” he says dryly.
“It’s historic. It’s special.” I throw up my hands, frustrated.
Dean’s shaking his head at me. “You’re crazy. There’s nothing special about small elevators and cramped closets.”
Now he’s making me angry. I mean, should I have read the reviews before I booked this place? Probably yes, but I don’t own a time machine, so what’s done is done.
“Like you need a big closet since you wear the same outfit every day. I’m convinced you only have three of those and you rotate them.” I gesture to his standard-issue dark-blue suit and roll my eyes.
“Besides, you haven’t seen the inside. I’ve got a four-poster bed like a princess and an original claw-foot bathtub from the 30s.” I don’t mention the hard mattress or the rust stains in the bottom of the tub.
“Oh! Oh!” I grasp his forearm and bounce excitedly. “It has a tiny kitchen, too.”
“All kitchens in New York are tiny,” he says, not impressed.
“Yes, but this one is the teeny, tiniest. One burner and a minifridge. I’m stocked up on soup and stuff to make PB and J’s.”
“Wow.” A sarcastic quirk of his brow. “You’re really living the high life.”
“I am.” I sniff, lifting my chin.
“Look,” he says, pointing outside the car window. “There aren’t even any lights on.”
“What?” I scramble forward, practically climbing into his lap, to see. “That’s strange. There’s always someone at the front desk.”
Dean unclicks his seatbelt, sliding it off his shoulder. “Let’s check it out.”
“It’s fine. You don’t have to come in. I—”
“Jennifer.” One word, his eyes flashing in warning.
“Okay. Okay. Chill,” I grumble as I climb out of the car and promptly slip on a patch of ice. I tumble into a drift of snow higher than my knees. Dean rushes over with a worried frown. He says something but the wind blows so hard that it rips the words away before I hear them.
“What?” I shout, holding back my hair. It whips around wildly. Curly tendrils slap my cheeks and cover my eyes until I’m blinded.
Dean leans down and yells, “I said. Are you okay?”
“Oh,” I laugh, embarrassed. “I’m fine. Just slipped.”
He grasps my upper arms and hauls me to my feet. With swift, efficient movements, he brushes the snow off my pants. “Let’s get you inside.” He keeps one hand on my arm as we struggle through the driving snow and into the lobby. The very dark lobby is lit by a single flashlight held in the trembling hand of a young night clerk whose nametag reads “Andy.”
“What’s going on?” Dean booms in his deep voice.
Andy, who can’t be more than , shrinks in on himself, stuttering. “S—sorry, sir. The entire block has lost power because of the wind and snow. It’s a real nor’easter.”
“A nor’ what?” I ask.
Dean spares a glance at me and says, “A bad storm.”
“We’re giving out flashlights and bottled water.” Andy points to a basket on the counter, loaded high with flashlights, candles, matches, and bottles of water. In front of it a small hand-lettered sign reads, Help yourself.
Dean scoops up two flashlights, along with the other supplies. He stalks off, heading for the stairs, next to the now-useless elevators.
“Thanks, Andy.” I give him a reassuring smile and sprint after Dean. “Hey. You don’t need to stay.” I’m panting from chasing him down. “I’ve got this.”
He doesn’t bother to answer. He just gives me a blistering stare, hands me a flashlight, and continues into a pitch-black stairwell that stinks of dead bodies—or maybe it’s mold. I press closer to Dean, suddenly grateful for his presence. I merge the beam of my light with his so we can see what’s in front of us. We climb. The only sound is our breathing, mine fast, his annoyingly even.
My room is on the third floor. The hallway leading to it is just as dark as the stairs. In the wavering light from the flashlight Dean holds, I manage to put my old-fashioned metal key into the lock. I use the weight of my body to turn it and wrench the door open. Wide curtained windows along the far wall let in enough moonlight for me to see the shadowy outlines of the queen bed and matching nightstands. A small, round table with two spindle-backed chairs sits in the corner next to the kitchen. Through another doorway, I glimpse the pedestal sink in the bathroom.
“Here it is,” I say cheerfully as I sweep out a hand. “Home sweet home.”
Dean scowls, casting a critical eye over the space. “What is that?” he asks. His flashlight plays over a small pine tree, two feet tall, in the corner of the room. The light makes the tree’s shadow waver on the wall behind it. The tree is thin and crooked. I’ve placed ornaments on its stronger branches, but they droop under the weight of the colorful balls. A tiny gold star sits on the uppermost portion. It leans to the side, canted at an awkward angle. I picked the star out because it reminded me of the one Gwen has, back at her mom’s house in California.
“It’s my Christmas tree.” I walk over to it and straighten the star. “I got it from the lot down the street. They were going to throw it out.” I prepare myself for Dean to say something demeaning about the tree. I know it’s no beauty pageant winner, but it called to me as soon as I saw it. It had seemed such a shame, to not let the little thing perform the duty it was grown for. Maybe I identified with it. It’s not perfect, just like me.
He grunts and says thoughtfully, “Reminds me of that television show, A Charlie Brown Christmas. I watched it with my nieces.”
“That’s what I thought too,” I exclaim, surprised by how diplomatic he’s being.
Dean places the items from downstairs on the table and organizes them, putting the candles and matches together. He bends and puts the water bottles on top of the minifridge, neatly lining them up so the labels all face the same direction.
Control freak.
I place a candle on the table and light it, releasing a warm fragrance into the air. Leaning over, I sniff deeply, “Vanilla. Nice touch.”
Dean reaches out and brushes back a lock of my curly hair that’s fallen forward, dangerously close to the open flame. “Careful there, Tiger. Don’t want you to catch fire.” He tucks the strands behind my shoulder, smoothing them down with his hand. I’m suddenly in danger of combusting, but not from the candle. There was something tender about the gesture, coupled with that stupid dimple that just popped out because he’s smiling at me. I feel all squishy inside, like giddy little bubbles are fizzing up from my stomach.
As if the dimple weren’t bad enough, Dean has a manly smell I notice for the first time, since he’s standing so close. It’s not cologne, more like body wash, something earthy and spicy. It makes me envision cowboys driving luxury sports cars. That scent combined with that of the candle is intoxicating. I breathe it in, letting it flood my senses, and my knees weaken. I grab the back of the nearest chair for stability.
I need him to leave—immediately.
Candles and moonlight and dimples and yummy smells are too dangerous a combination.
“Well,” I say brightly, herding him toward the door. “Thanks for the help. You’ve been a real gentleman. Call your mother and thank her for raising you right.”
“Oh. Er—okay.” Dean pauses for a second in the open doorway, concern lowering his brows. “Are you sure you’ll be fine?”
“Yep. Fine. Perfectly fine.”
Please leave before I do something disastrous, like kiss you.
“Have a good night. Drive safe,” I sing out and, heart pounding, shut the door, even though he probably stands on the other side looking perplexed. With my back against the door, I wave a hand, fanning my heated cheeks. I hold my breath, listening to his footfalls as he retreats back to the stairs.
There. Crisis averted.
I congratulate myself on making good decisions. Something I didn’t used to do, but now, after the Gwen mistake, I’m working on.
I’ve had just enough time to use the bathroom and brush my teeth when a loud pounding on the door makes me jump. I open it to find Dean, his hair and clothing wet. Snowflakes glitter like diamonds, melting in his eyelashes.
“I can’t move the car,” he says. “The snow’s too high, and they haven’t plowed the road.” My mouth drops as he pushes past me into the room and peels off his dripping overcoat. He shakes his head, water droplets flying everywhere. “We’re stuck here. Snowed in.”
Well, darn.
“Are we going to freeze to death?” is the first question that flies out of my mouth.
“These old buildings have radiators that run on gas. We’ll be fine.” Dean sits down, taking off his shoes and wet socks. He goes over to the radiator in the corner of the room and drapes his socks over it, which is kinda gross, but whatever. There are no radiators in California, so I don’t know the rules. The first time this one warmed up, it made a loud banging noise. Scared the pants right off me. Now Dean’s barefoot, which he makes look attractive as he pads around.
“Didn’t you say something about soup?”
“Yes, chicken noodle.”
That’s when I notice he’s shivering, his hair still damp. I jump into action, grabbing him a towel to dry off. I put a pot on the burner. There’s a minute when I wonder if the stove will work with the power out, but I turn the knob and hear the whoosh of flame. Oh, yeah, I feel a bit silly. This is gas, too. Just like the radiator.
“I’m going to call and check on Caleb,” he announces. In this small room, it’s impossible to not overhear his end of the conversation when he finally connects. I gather that Caleb is fine. That his fancy apartment building has a backup generator and that Tom, another bodyguard, will stay with him tonight. There are some “Hmms” and “You don’t says” from Dean before he hangs up.
“Any news?” I ask.
“Caleb was worried about you. I told him you were okay. He said most of Manhattan is without power. He mentioned that it reminds him of when Hurricane Sandy hit.”
“I remember reading about that. Wasn’t it bad?” I get butter out of the minifridge and close the door with my foot.
His expression is sober. “The city shut down for about four days back then.”
I suck in a breath. “No! That can’t happen. I promised Gwen her wedding would be perfect. Said I’d personally make sure.”
“I know,” he says and nods. “Don’t worry. We won’t let this storm stop us. We’ll give them the wedding they deserve.”
I’m not sure where he gets his confidence from, but I like it. He makes it sound so easy, as if he can will away the chaos of this storm and create a calm, orderly wedding from nothing more than sheer determination.
A few minutes later, I’ve cobbled together a meal for us. Warm soup and crusty bread I got from the bakery down the street. I slather the bread with butter, reminding myself this should be the last time I open the refrigerator. Don’t want the food in there to go bad. Look at me, being so responsible. So domestic and adult-ish. I snap a quick picture of the meal with my phone.
“Did you…just take a photo of your soup?” Dean cocks his head.
I sit down and spread a paper napkin over my lap, admiring the flicker of the candle in the center of the table. “Yep. I’ll send it to Gwen in the morning. She’ll be so proud.”
“Really?”
“She’s always been the practical one, while I’ve been the free spirit, more…” I wrinkle my brow, searching for the right word, “impulsive, I guess. I’m trying to be less that way. More like her.” I put a kettle of water on the burner and set it to boil. I have tea and hot chocolate. Hopefully that’ll warm Dean up.
Steam rises from the soup in his spoon. Dean blows on it. I look away from those full lips, swallowing thickly.
“Is this about your slip-up?” he asks. “Back in L.A.? When you told your friend that Caleb was staying with Gwen?”
“Maybe,” I say and sigh, my gaze downcast, staring at the tabletop, which is chipped and scarred.
“Gwen’s forgiven you, right? Caleb, too?”
I nod, the corners of my mouth ticking down. “You were mad at me as well. In case you’ve forgotten.”
He leans back and scrubs his hand across his chin. “That was more about me than about you.”
“How so?” I glance up through my lashes, taking in his pensive expression.
“I thought it would be better for both of us if I kept my distance. Staying angry made that easier.”
I place my spoon on the table. “Why?”
Before he can answer, the steam kettle whistles, the sound piercing. Dean flinches. I quickly hop up to get it, stopping the noise. Dean and I both choose hot chocolate, which tickles me for some reason. I find it amusing, this strong burly man daintily sipping a drink designed for children and chewing on mini-marshmallows. A sugar-free peppermint is my dessert. I suck on it until it shrinks to half its size, then finish it off with a loud crunch.
“What’s up with the candy?” Dean asks. “Why do you hide it?”
“It’s silly, a leftover habit from when I was a kid.” I stare down at my hands folded in my lap. “My brothers used to tease me. When I’d eat candy they’d make these noises, oinks like a pig. I learned to hide it so they would stop.”
I’m surprised I told him that story. Gwen’s the only other person who knows. She would get so mad on my behalf. I remember one time, when she’d had enough. Tiny Gwen had stood, hands balled into fists at her sides, and shouted at my brothers, “Leave her alone, you pricks.”
Dean has grown still as a statue. Even though he doesn’t move, I can sense some kind of internal storm raging under his calm exterior. In a tightly controlled voice, he asks, “Is that why you work out so much? Because of those noises your brothers would make?”
My head bent, I shrug silently.
“Give me their addresses,” Dean says.
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to kill them.”
I snap up my gaze at that. “It really wasn’t a big deal,” I rush to tell him. “It sounds worse when I say it out loud.”
“Jennifer. Anytime anyone makes you feel like there’s something wrong with you, when clearly there is not, it’s a big deal.” Each word comes out measured. If I didn’t notice the tense set of his shoulders and the way he’s crushed the paper napkin in his hands, I wouldn’t know that Dean is enraged. “What your brothers did to you is BS. If I ever get to see them in person, I’d love to tell them that with my fists.”
Something warm spreads through my chest. My breathing speeds up. I’m suddenly aware of how small the room is, of how close Dean sits next to me. Who knew that threats of violence could be so alluring?
I notice he’s shivering. “You should take a shower so you’re not so cold. The hot water should work, right? Isn’t it gas?”
He relaxes his grip, letting the crumpled napkin fall to the table. Dean’s ears turn pink. “I don’t have anything to change into afterward. All my clothing got wet when I tried to dig the car out.”
I glance out the window and see only white. The snow comes down so steady and hard that it looks like someone hung a sheer curtain over the glass. “There are towels in there. I have a robe that might fit. Take a shower, and I’ll get it out.”
He takes a candle with him since it’s dark in the windowless bathroom. After I hear the water turn on, I quickly change into my pajamas, fleece with buttons and a pink plaid pattern. Very unsexy. I tuck my hair into a satin bonnet to protect it from getting tangled while I sleep. Then I grab my terry cloth robe out of the closet. It’s always been huge on me, so hopefully it’ll fit him. When the shower turns off, I wait by the door.
“I’ve got it,” I say, raising my voice.
“Hang on, let me put my watch back on,” he replies, muffled.
A minute later, the door cracks open. I shove the robe in, averting my eyes. “Here, try this.”
Dean’s fingers, damp and warm, brush mine as he murmurs, “Thanks.”
I lay down in bed, under the covers, and pick up my phone. The sight of it reminds of earlier today. How I found it face up. Had Eddie seen it and the stalker information on it? Probably not. If he had, he would have brought it up at the restaurant. Knowing him, he would have blackmailed me or would have immediately issued a “breaking news” edition of the paper with all the details.
None of that’s happened, so I must be overly paranoid. Maybe I moved the phone and didn’t realize it? Maybe it fell to the floor while I was getting coffee, and the waiter picked it up and put it back on the table? Still, should I mention the possibility to Dean? Warn him?
That thought is quickly forgotten the minute Dean emerges. A look at him and I burst into laughter, so hard that fat tears roll down my cheeks.
“Hey,” he protests, his ears bright red.
My robe comes to the top of his thick, muscular thighs. He holds it in place so it doesn’t gape. He’s even tied a bow into the cloth belt that goes around his waist.
“It’s a little small,” he says miserably.
“You think?” I’m still laughing, although softer now. I try to stifle the sound since I can tell he’s embarrassed. It’s just that he looks so funny.
“Come over here and get under the covers,” I say.
Dean’s eyes widen with horror. “Over there?” he asks slowly. “But…” his voice dropping to a whisper, like he’s telling me a secret, “you’re sleeping over there.”
“Pftt,” I say and wave my hand.
“It’s fine. We can share the bed. I don’t mind.”
His eyes widen even more. Soon they’ll swallow his whole face.
“What if I mind?”
I put my phone down on the nightstand and turn to fluff up my pillow before flopping back on it.
“Stop being such a baby. You’re shivering again. Get in here.”
He searches the room, giving serious consideration to the floor.
Now I’m mad. Is it really so bad to be in the same bed as me? Sheesh. You’d think I was poison ivy or something. Every time we take a step forward, we go back two. It’s clear the blooming attraction I feel toward him only goes one way.
“Dean,” I say, using my firm voice, the only tone that made my brothers stop and listen. “You’re being ridiculous. Get in. I’ll stay on my side, and you stay on yours. We’re both adults here. I think I have enough self-control to keep my hands off you.”
With that, he comes over, muttering, “Fine, but I’m keeping the robe on.” The bed creaks when he climbs in, the white metal frame shaking. “This mattress is hard,” he grumbles.
An awkward silence descends, and I’m fuming, wondering what exactly is so repulsive about me that this guy can’t stand to be near me. It’s another rejection. Another person who wants nothing to do with me. My brothers, Eddie, now Dean. I know I’m not perfect. Not a perfect friend. I don’t have a perfect body. Still, I try to be a nice person, a good person. It doesn’t matter. This is where I always end up.
In a thoroughly sour mood, I deliberately ignore him and scroll through my phone, checking my emails one last time.
The bed squeaks again as he makes himself comfortable. After a minute, he whispers a soft, “Jennifer.”
“What?” I snap.
“You shouldn’t use your phone. The battery will die, and we can’t charge it.”
“Really? That’s what you wanted to tell me?” I glare over at him, anger surging through my veins.
“Well, yes,” he says, all peevish, as if he has the right to be offended.
I don’t bother answering, too busy imagining all the ways I’m going to murder him.
Another long silence, finally broken by a soft, “Jennifer?”
Hah. I’m not falling for that again. Whatever he has to say, I don’t want to hear. I’m sick of feeling like this, like I’m not worth knowing, so I bark out a harsh, “Good night, Dean.”
With more force than is necessary, I punch my pillow until it’s in the shape I want. A puff of my breath to blow out the candle.
I turn away from him and fall asleep.
What was Dean going to say to Jenny before she told him good night?
What was he thinking when he came out of the bathroom in that tiny robe? Read this chapter from Dean’s point of view to find out!
Click the link or scan the QR code below to join my newsletter and you’ll receive an EXCLUSIVE bonus chapter from Dean’s perspective that’s only available for newsletter subscribers!